


Don't Tell

by cluey (Cluey)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1769554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluey/pseuds/cluey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes' life comes to a disturbing end, and Sherlock doesn't feel ready to tell Lestrade. Lestrade, however, is led to believe that Mycroft is still alive - so when he finds out he's been lied to for over a year, he's completely broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Tell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [internetpiratearrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/internetpiratearrr/gifts).



Mycroft’s face had multiple blows to the skull, resulting in hairline fractures and severe bruising to the tissue around his cheekbones and eye sockets; his left eyebrow was split and the bloody gash ran down past the eyelid, the eye itself cut and discoloured from the blood caught inside.  
Molly brushed Mycroft’s hair gently with the back of her gloved hand, her chest was aching from having cried into Sherlock’s chest for so long. It was surprising, really, that Sherlock had just let her hug him and cry; he hadn’t hugged her back, but he’d still let her. He’d still held the back of her head gently, but firmly, as she’d soaked the shoulder of his sweeping coat with her tears. But what he didn’t do, was cry.

“Sherlock?” John called out into the morgue. His flatmate was stood dead still, staring expressionlessly at the bashed and broken body that was his brother.   
‘Transport’, he’d called the human body, ‘nothing but mere transport’. Yet nothing could have prepared him for his dear brother’s unexpected, disastrous crash - everything had been okay just yesterday.  
“…John.” It was the first thing that Sherlock Holmes had said since they were given the news, and, somehow, despite the events that the day had cruelly unfolded, John felt a warm tingling sensation somewhere in his chest.  
The doctor slowly paced over to Sherlock and took hold of his elbow and pulled back, a feeble attempt at removing his companion away from the death that was surrounding him like a thick layer of poisoned fog.

Every single day Sherlock Holmes boldly took to the streets with his trench coat and funny little cheekbones to laugh in the face of death and put the villains of London to bed. Every single day, no fault.

“Has somebody told Greg?” Molly asked. She’d been watching Sherlock for a while now, not knowing what to do. She was glad when John had stepped up, because she knew that John could do one thing for Sherlock that she couldn’t, despite the fact that it hurt her; she knew she couldn’t make Sherlock look at her the way he looked at John. Friendship, romance or anything else in between - John was the only one who put that glimmer of hope in the consulting detective’s eyes.  
“No,” John said, his voice cracked. “No, I’ll…go do that now.” The doctor loosely let his grip go from Sherlock’s elbow as he turned to leave. But what Sherlock said next is what brought the salty tears to spill over the brim of his eyes:

“We can never tell Lestrade.”

Molly froze in the doorway.

John stopped in his tracks.  
They both stared miserably at Sherlock.

“Sherlock.” John began. “We can’t not-”

Sherlock spun around on his heals, his eyes bleary and his brows furrowed angrily. His hands were balled tightly into fists and sweat was beaded on his forehead.   
“What would Lestrade do if he knew that Mycroft had been beaten to death in the most undignified way possible? That he died in the utmost agony?” Sherlock’s nostrils flared and the salt burned in his eyes. “Well?”  
Molly looked down at her shoes, her lips parted, her eyes wide. “Sherlock. I’d want to know if my Catherine had died. I wouldn’t want to be waiting at home, expecting her to walk through the door any second when, really, she is laid out on a…mortuary slab in front of you.”

Sherlock’s expression softened for half a second, before returning his gaze menacingly to Mycroft.  
“We don’t tell him.”

 

“Anyone seen Mycroft, recently?” Lestrade asked, as Molly and Sherlock entered his office. “We’re meant to be heading out tonight.”  
Molly glanced back at Sherlock, trying to force the tears not to arise. Sherlock simply gave her a stony gaze in return.  
“My brother has gone.” Sherlock said.  
“Gone…where?” Lestrade looked confused. “Where’s he gone?”  
Sherlock locked his eyes once again with Molly before looking back at the DI. “America,” he said.  
Lestrade chocked on his tea, replacing the cup back on its saucer. “America? What?”  
“Government work, top secret. He’s not allowed any contact. None what-so-ever. It’s a miracle he even let me tell you this much.  
Molly turned and left the room, Greg’s eyes burning into her back.  
“America?” Lestrade repeated.  
“Yes!” Sherlock snapped, his temper raising. “God, is there an echo in this room? Lestrade, just accept it. Mycroft has gone and it’s unlikely he’ll return. Move on with your live, man, buck it up!” Then, with a swish of his coat, Sherlock turned on his heel and left the room.

 

* * * *

Greg Lestrade soon quit his job as a Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard, so he could sit in the front room of his and Mycroft’s house, waiting for the Government Official to walk up the front path and come back home. Why Mycroft hadn’t contacted him in so long, he didn’t know.

Days past, then weeks, which soon turned to months and, finally, years. Still no sign of Mycroft Holmes.  
Eventually, Lestrade gathered the courage to pick up the phone and demand the Government or whoever it was that was organising the ‘top secret’ mission to America to let him speak to Mycroft.  
“My name is Gregory Lestrade, and I must speak to Mr Mycroft Holmes immediately.” Greg held his breath as there was an awkward pause at the other end of the line.  
“Mr Mycroft Holmes, sir?” The voice at the receiving end said. “I’m afraid…you can’t speak to Mr Holmes.”  
“Right, look he-”  
“Mr Mycroft Holmes has been deceased since 10th June, 2014, sir. Two years and three months ago, to be precise. If there is an important matter that must be discussed with our men, then may I suggest to you sir that you speak to Mr Moriarty? He’s been the replacement of Mr Mycroft Holmes for over two years. However, I could also refer you to Miss Reed, as she is available, if you would prefer…?”


End file.
